CHERUB of Heaven, that from thy secret stand
Dost note the follies of each mortal here,
Oh, if Eliza’s steps employ thy hand,
Blot the sad legend with a mortal tear.
Nor, when she errs, through passion’s wild extreme,
Mark then her course, nor heed each trifling wrong;
Nor, when her sad attachment is her theme,
Note down the transports of her erring tongue.
But, when she sighs for sorrows not her own,
Let that dear sigh to Mercy’s cause be given;
And bear that tear to her Creator’s throne,
Which glistens in the eye upraised to Heaven!